It began with no milk in the refrigerator and culminated in a SWAT team.
I should have known things would go downhill from the first moment I realised that my morning coffee was a no go, but instead I blithely continued on as if rainbows and cupcakes were coming my way.
Only they didn’t.
What did hit me like a bolt of lightning from the blue blue sky, was the absolute sheer magnitude of my own stupidity.
The dog and I conduct an intricate dance each morning until I have her leashed next to the gate. Then I drive out of the gate, where I leap from my car, press the gate button, dash inside, unleash the dog and dash back before she can make a break for freedom.
Only it didn’t work that way this morning.
Everything was going like clockwork until, instead of her usual attitude of defeat when the gap closes, the dog make a last minute dash for the open road. She didn’t make it, but I neither did I.
So, to recap. The car, the keys and the cellphone are now on the opposite side of the 6-foot burglar proof gate and I am on the other.
I’m no shrinking violet so I ransack the garage for something to use to force the gate onto manual. I destroy a plastic ruler, a pair of scissors and some sort of hinge thing before I realise this is not going to work.
It was time for Plan B. I got the ladder. My kids climb over this gate all the time, how hard could it be in 2-inch heels and a retro-50s teadress? Yeah. I ended up perched on the top the gate in the realisation that I could not get down the other side without serious bodily injury.
The dog, the other dog and the two dogs from next door watched me with ill concealed contempt and laughter, plus lots of eye-rolling.
It was time for Plan C. I began to shout in the hope that my neighbour could hear me. “Hello! Hello! Can anybody hear me!” I started softly and then the sheer horror of my precarious situation on top of the gate began to sink in. “I need help! Please!”
In my head I thought one of my neighbours would pop their heads round and I’d be out in a flash. That’s not how it played out. Why? Because I live in Johannesburg, South Africa. We don’t hear a cry for help and go and see what we can do – oh no we call the police, the security company and the neighbourhood watch.
The symphony of sirens and screeching brakes brought me back from the brink of a orgasmic self pity party. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. In seconds I was surrounded by five armed security guys, three police officers and the creepy guy from the neighbourhood watch (armed with a shotgun!).
“Hi!” I chirped breezily, as if I was in no way phased by any of this, “Could you hand me the keys from my car so I can open the gate? Oh and could someone help me down from here?”